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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338716">Suptober Day 31: Carry On</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv'>tiamatv</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Promptober 2020 [30]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothed Sex, Episode Remix, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Season/Series 15, Wing Kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:13:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas both stare at the three-jointed finger that's twitching threateningly at them from the bunker floor.</p><p>“Oh, that’s a bit disgusting,” Cas gravels out, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing, and wrinkles his nose. “Shall we Borax it?”</p><p>(An episode interlude from 15 x 09)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Promptober 2020 [30]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>294</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Suptober Day 31: Carry On</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So... I'm a bit behind, and have only seen up to Episode 15 x 09. If I only EVER see up to that reunion scene in front of the portal, I shall die a happy fangirl.</p><p>I meant this to have more drama and feels. Boyos wanted fluffy cutesy smut. Story of my life.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They stumble back through the portal, one after another, with so little time on the clock even Dean can’t count that low. The tear in the world crackles closed behind them fast enough that Cas grabs for the flapping edge of his coat and yanks it to him—right, because Cas’s coat getting eaten by <em>Purgatory</em> is the real problem here. The momentum of his run carries Dean forward, almost right into the wall because his body wants out of Purgatory so fast it momentarily forgets how to put on the brakes.</p><p>The air of the bunker feels fresh and sweet and Dean takes a big, delicious gulp of it. Which is a fucking weird thing to say about an underground bunker. But they’ve spent the past ten plus hours in a place where the only flowers around are growing from dead monster corpses, so cut Dean some slack, hey?</p><p>But something alien screeches, behind him and it’s horrifyingly familiar, or at least to them it is. It’s the sort of scream that not even the most tortured human soul makes—the kind that’s a blade of itself, cutting through blood and bone. Dean’s gun is already up when he turns to face where the world was open—but Cas’s shoulder slams back against his, and Dean forgets, he really forgets sometimes how <em>solid</em> Cas can be when he wants to be. The goddamned angel Dean just nearly lost into the blood and the grey again shoves him—shoves <em>Dean Winchester</em>—behind him, between himself and the map table, and oh, <em>sonofabitch</em>, they are gonna have <em>words</em>—</p><p>There’s nothing there. There’s no noise. No portal. No… <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>Uh, okay.</p><p>Then something sort of… wiggles.</p><p>Both Dean and Cas—otherwise known as the little idiot still standing half in front of Dean with his trench coat one big blood-spattered rumple, his legs spread in a balanced stance, and angel blade threateningly up—glance down.</p><p>The stump of the too-long, three-jointed clawed finger on the floor twitches once, and is still. It doesn’t even bleed. The line of it is severed so cleanly that even the bit of black stuff inside looks polished. Nothing even oozes out. It’s like it just… ends.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>So that’s what happens if something’s half-in, half-out of the portal. Well, that’s fucking terrifying, Dean’s gonna have nightmares about that for a while.</p><p>“Oh, that’s a bit disgusting,” Cas gravels out, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing, and <em>wrinkles his nose</em>. “Shall we Borax it?”</p><p>Okay, seriously, Cas, <em>seriously?</em></p><p>They’ve just barely gotten themselves back out of Purgatory. they nearly got their butts trapped in an infinite wasteland to get an incredibly gross piranhaface flower—just a little smooshed—that Cas still has tucked into his coat. Sam’s still in danger, possibly getting tortured; they have no idea what happened to Eileen, because Cas’s eternal fucking blessed Father is on all of their asses.</p><p>And the angel’s thinking about bunker hygiene.</p><p>Dean’s pretty sure he’s the one who doubles over first with a wheeze that turns into a laugh. Because why? <em>Why</em> is this their fucking lives, and for that matter, how are they both even still <em>alive</em>?</p><p>They had forty-two seconds on the clock. There were more giant mouths made of hunger and fangs and black goop between them and their way home than Dean’s seen since the last time he was hauling an ungrateful angel around Purgatory. He and Cas were back to back, bloodied, out of shotgun shells and down to blades. Dean knew—he just <em>knew, </em>from the look on Cas’s face when he turned to glance at him over his shoulder, and the way Cas had a hand going into his coat, that whatever Cas was planning, it was a typical Cas plan.</p><p>Which probably meant something like ‘stuff the leviathan flower into Dean’s hand, throw him through the portal, and charge all Little Angel Sparta into the mess of monsters out to torture and kill him.’ Him, <em>specifically</em>.</p><p>Dean wasn’t <em>entirely</em> just talking out of his way-too-mad, fury-blind ass when he said that Cas has the fucking <em>worst</em> ideas, sometimes.</p><p>And that was when the wave of vampires hit the flank of the dozen Leviathans and started chewing through them like a bowl of bar nachos.</p><p>Led by a big, familiar guy, beard wilder than Dean remembers it, fangs out and proud.</p><p>“Heya, Chief!” Benny boomed, a big-ass ax in each hand and a dark plated jacket Dean didn’t remember stretched over his shoulders, looking happier than Dean’s ever seen him. “Oh, hey, Hot Wings, yeah, thought that was you everyone was talkin’ about!” He grinned, and his teeth are spattered with black. He was one of the most goddamned beautiful sights Dean had ever seen in his whole fucking lifetime. “Better get a move on, boys, looks like your ride’s leavin’ without you!”</p><p>Turns out that Benny might not be king of the place, the way Dean hopefully—really hopefully—thought before he let his hopes get ground down again.</p><p>But he <em>is</em> king of the vampires, and it turns out that Purgatory vamps think leviathans are all the fun in the world to snack on.</p><p>Or. Well. Tear to pieces, since they ain’t eating them. (<em>Gross.</em>)</p><p>Benny. God fucking damn, <em>Benny, </em>that sonofabitch. Dean should’ve known he’d make it—he should’ve <em>known</em> that no matter what goo-face said, Benny is goddamned <em>Benny</em>. But Dean’s thought that before, so many times. He knows better than anyone that no-one’s immortal, that the bad and the luck and their own choices can come for anyone.</p><p>That’s why he was so scared for Cas, watching the timer tick down on his phone. That’s why he <em>prayed</em>.</p><p>Dean’s lost so goddamned much in his life. To find out that Cas is <em>alive</em> and Dean’s not going to have to make the choice to save himself without so much as knowing if his best friend is alive or dead? To get back from the dark and the uncertainty both Cas <em>and</em> Benny—two things, two <em>people, </em>that Dean was pretty goddamned sure for a horrible few hours he was never, ever gonna see again, ‘cause good things don’t happen to him like that?</p><p>He just… fuck, now Dean doesn’t even know whether he’s laughing or he’s crying or both, and it’s sure as fuck not an ugly dead monster finger on the bunker floor that’s causing it.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Cas asks. When Dean glances up, he’s got both hands in his pockets, one eyebrow up, and the Leviathan flower is sitting on one of the atrium tables like the world’s ugliest wedding centerpiece. “Or are you having a seizure?”</p><p>Cas doesn’t even sound all that <em>worried</em> about it, the asshole, and Dean flaps a hand at him and gets out a few more chuckles, still doubled over.</p><p>Okay, laughing it is, then.</p><p>Dean’s a fucking Winchester, and they don’t <em>get</em> this. They don’t get the win.</p><p>For some reason, that makes Dean think, though. He thinks of a barn, a face too pretty for the power rattling around them, a radio ad salesman in a trench coat with storm-stirred hair and wings. He thinks of “<em>gripped you tight and raised you from perdition</em>,” and “<em>you don’t think you deserve to be saved</em>.”</p><p>Dean <em>didn’t</em> believe that, it’s true. He still doesn’t, in a lot of ways. They might be the guys who save the world, but they break just as much as they make. Cas knows that better than anyone.</p><p>But the little imperfect angel who saved him anyway is still, ten and change years later, looking up at Dean with his eyebrows up and a familiar slight smile raising the corners of his mouth. The tilt of his head is just the same; the warmth in his blue, sad eyes is completely different. He’s no more or less beautiful than he’s ever been; Dean doesn’t remember when that little jump in his chest when Cas smiles at him became familiar.</p><p>“Well, I guess it’s good to hear you laugh again,” Cas answers—or maybe he tells the world, Dean’s not sure. “Even though I think you’re laughing at me, and I really wasn’t joking.”</p><p>Dean thinks of “<em>Good things do happen, Dean</em>.”</p><p>For the first time in a long, long time, Dean might actually believe it again.</p><p>Cas’s tie is in his hand, and it’s silky and clean even though nothing about them should be, coming out of Purgatory. When Dean tugs on it, gently, Cas comes with it in a delicate little stumble, like he’s not a being that can toss a Leviathan across the forest with a wave of his hand or do ten impossible things before breakfast.</p><p>Or walk away from Dean when Dean can’t forgive, because Cas has learned to walk away even when all Dean knows how to do is hold on.</p><p>Dean’s holding on, now.</p><p>“I’m gonna kiss you now,” Dean blurts out. He doesn’t know if it’s a warning or a threat. He thinks, the moment it’s out of his mouth, that he should have just <em>done </em>it, because the words make it real, the words give them <em>choices, </em>and—</p><p>But they’ve had enough of doing and not saying. That’s their whole <em>problem.</em></p><p>Those aren’t the words that have been behind Dean’s breastbone for years, chewed and swallowed down over and over again, and part of the reason he was so, so <em>angry </em>when Cas was there, and even angrier when he left. They’re not even what he meant to tell Cas, overwhelmed with relief and joy that Cas was alive—that, no matter how little Dean actually <em>wanted</em> to tell him how he really felt, the universe had handed him another chance to.</p><p>He chickened out when Cas told him he didn’t have to. Again. All over again.</p><p>But he said he forgave Cas, he said he was <em>sorry</em>. Dean said he shouldn’t have let him go, and he meant it.</p><p>It shouldn’t have been enough for Cas to forgive him back, but it was.</p><p>It doesn’t change the world around them. It doesn’t change the fact that Sam’s in the hands of a psycho God with a capital G. It sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that in order for them to put the asshole back into the box, one of <em>them’s</em> got to be the lock that holds it shut.</p><p>But it changes <em>Dean</em>, and Dean’s pretty sure that’s something that’s needed changing for a while now.</p><p>“Oh,” Cas answers. Then, “Okay.”</p><p>Like it’s just as simple as that.</p><p>Maybe it is. The first kiss is soft. It’s just a press of quiet, closed lips. It’s the most goddamned grandmotherly kiss Dean’s pretty sure he’s given anyone. It shouldn’t feel like the bunker is quivering around them. Cas is so still, and he’s looking right into Dean’s soul.</p><p>“Hey, close your eyes,” Dean says, running a thumb over Cas’s cheekbone. There’s a quick tacky brush of dried blood, and he flakes it away with a nail.</p><p>“No,” Cas answers, in a low, purring murmur Dean didn’t even know he knew how to make, and <em>holy shit</em> that sound goes right down to Dean’s inner thighs. His hand comes up to mirror Dean’s, and his palm is warm and rough against Dean’s face, a finger tucking right underneath the sensitive crease behind Dean’s ear. “I want to see you.”</p><p>Damned angel.</p><p>The next kiss isn’t soft anymore, but they’re both grinning into it a little, and <em>fuck,</em> that feels good—tight and sweet, maybe a little weird ‘cause Dean’s never felt someone else’s soft scratch on his face before; even when he fucked, he never <em>kissed</em>. It’s a weird view, this close, Cas’s face blurry with proximity, those familiar eyes going big and bright and interested before falling half closed. Cas has short, thick eyelashes, and he scrunches his forehead in like he has to concentrate. Dean’s pretty sure there might be something wrong with how cute he finds that.</p><p>But then Dean’s got the deep dip in Cas’s upper lip that he’s been dreaming of for years soft against his tongue. <em>That </em>makes Cas’s eyes pull closed, the seam of his mouth parting on the next breath. (Okay, so Dean is watching, too, nothing at all wrong with that.)</p><p>On the third kiss, Dean finds out that Cas, for a nearly-virgin angel, has a mouth that, holy <em>shit</em>, could have probably seduced Dean even when he was a <em>demon</em>.</p><p>But Dean’s back has also just hit the map table from Cas crowding him against it, hungry and amazing and eager as he introduces Dean to <em>his</em> tongue. Okay, this isn’t cute anymore, it’s <em>really</em> fucking hot. Dean was already running bright and electric with fight and flee and maybe just a bit of hysterical relief, and when Cas’s tongue flicks against the tip of his, glides further in to tap across the well of it, well, Dean’s not letting <em>Cas</em> show him up, what the fuck.</p><p>This time, when Dean’s got Cas’s bottom lip gently tucked between his, he <em>bites</em>.</p><p>Cas’s moan is shocked, deep and throaty, and he tastes like sunshine and grass when Dean licks his way in—his turn, now. Dean’s got one arm hauling Cas against him by the small of his back, the other in Cas’s hair, when the room lights flare. The <em>map table</em> flickers around and behind them—what the hell, they’ve got no fucking luck, none at <em>all. </em>Dean pulls away from the kiss, frowning, and looks up, because that had better be Chuck <em>himself </em>or else Dean’s gonna—</p><p>That’s not an attack.</p><p>“<em>Holy shit!</em>” Dean exclaims, delighted, staring at the <em>wings </em>spread across the bunker walls, looking fucking huge against the high ceilings. He hasn’t seen the shadows of those bad boys in more years than he likes to think about. He forgot how that <em>looked</em>.</p><p>But Cas actually flinches, the lights come back on and the wings flickering out like they were never there. His body curls against Dean’s, their shoulders bumping and his head ducking down, and Dean remembers what Cas said before he walked out of the bunker.</p><p><em>“My grace is failing</em>,” he said, quietly, matter-of-fact and sad and accepting about it, like someone else might say <em>“I’m dying</em>.”</p><p>Because in some ways, that’s <em>exactly</em> what it means.</p><p>How much did that little light show cost him?</p><p>Dean realizes he’s rubbing a hand worriedly along Cas’s hip when Cas lifts his head again and meets his eyes. But when Cas says “I’m sorry,” a little miserably, Dean wonders if maybe they’re not both on the same straight smooth highway to Albuquerque anymore, all of a sudden.</p><p>“What?” Dean asks, blankly. Sorry? Jesus. They’re going whole hog with the apologies today, but this one’s fucking ridiculous. “Cas, you don’t have to apologize for every little thing. So what if you turned on the fireworks for a second?” He leers, playfully. For the first time in a long, long time, it even feels natural on his lips. “It’s pretty awesome.”</p><p>Cas stares at him and frowns. “It’s…?” And that familiar little tilt of his head being pointed towards Dean should not be something that Dean finds hot, but it’s a look Cas only gets around <em>them</em>, when he’s not being Angel Badass. When he lets himself be… well, not <em>human, </em>exactly, because even when Cas <em>was</em> human he wasn’t all that human, but… himself. “My wings are very ugly, Dean. You don’t have to be polite about it.”</p><p>Polite? Has Cas <em>met</em> him? “Uh, what?”</p><p>Cas grimaces, his mouth going tight and pale. “I will try to keep them ethereal. I have enough grace left for that, I think—”</p><p>“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What? Time out. It takes grace to keep them <em>in</em>?” The memory is blurred a little with pain and rage, but Dean remembers how just how much <em>effort</em> it took for Cas to just heal his hand after the last spell. Dean let him do it anyway, because as angry as he still was, it was the only way he could have his overprotective angel of a best friend back for even a second, and Dean is a selfish asshole that way.</p><p>Cas gives him a strange look. “Yes, Dean, it takes actual effort and energy to conceal a part of my body that is attached to me,” he answers, slowly.</p><p>“Oh, you are a sassy sonofabitch, and I love it,” Dean answers, rolling his eyes, and shit, he almost said it again. “But you don’t have to do that, Cas. I mean… seriously. They’re hot as hell, I mean it.” Dean glances ruefully down at where his cock is still very interested in these proceedings and is sort of pissed and achy they’ve stopped kissing. He can honestly say he’s never gotten a boner like this just <em>kissing</em>. “You know what? Relax, take a load off just for a second. Air ‘em out.”</p><p>Cas’s eyes go a little wider. “But, Dean, they’re…”</p><p>“If you say they’re ugly again, I’m going to hit you,” Dean warns.</p><p>“That’s a very inappropriate threat for these circumstances,” Cas answers, sassy to the last—but he tips his head back and lets go with a shudder.</p><p>Oh, holy shit. And Dean does really mean <em>holy</em>, this time.</p><p>There’s not as much of a light show, and no bulbs pop this time—Dean wonders if some of that was Cas’s wings escaping from his hold on them, because he’s pretty sure that the first time they met, it was just because Cas is a little on the dramatic side. They just sort of <em>unfold</em> around and behind him. They’re sharp shadows on the walls, on the roof, spread over the tables and warped by the outlines of doorways.</p><p>Watching the silhouettes spread over the bunker over Cas’s shoulders, Dean can sort of see what Cas meant: they’re not full or fluffy or soft-looking anymore, and there’s whole patches that look like they’re missing flesh and feathers. What few feathers there are left are twisted, or bent. Maybe burnt. More than one spot is worn down to bone. Jesus. They don’t look angelic—they look <em>shattered.</em></p><p>But the way Cas stretches them out wide, flapping the tips in what must be the wing equivalent of a finger-wiggle, looks like it feels <em>good</em>; Dean knows that stretch, shaking out the kinks after a long car ride. Even Baby, big and beautiful as she is, can get cramped sometime.</p><p>But then he realizes that Cas is looking right at his face.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know exactly what he’s showing on there, but it can’t be good: Cas’s face twists, more worried even than he normally looks. Shit, shit—Cas’s shoulders duck down and slump, and both wings yank in tight towards his back again, starting to fold up and origami themselves away behind him.</p><p>“Hey, hey, wait, you don’t have to—” Dean jerks out a hand automatically behind Cas’s back before Cas can shut them all the way—shit, he really didn’t mean to make him feel <em>worse</em>. They’re still plenty badass, it’s just—</p><p>He doesn’t expect his hand to hit skin. And bone. And <em>feathers</em>.</p><p>From the way Castiel yips—a higher sound that Dean’s ever heard him make in <em>ten years</em>—neither did Cas.</p><p>What the fuck—</p><p>Dean has a handful of invisible… <em>something…</em> in his hand, and when he looks up at the shadows on the wall—he can see where his <em>fingers </em>are dimpling into it. The silhouette of Cas’s left wing is shivering against the wall, and it’s so fucking weird that Dean can feel something trembling against his fingers that he can’t <em>see</em>. When he looks up and studies the shadows, it looks to him like he’s got his hand resting cupped just under the blade of Cas’s left wing—just underneath where it arcs into a sort of elbow.</p><p>Dean squeezes, very gently. “There you are,” he says. He’s not even sure who he’s saying it to.</p><p>Cas shudders. “Please be careful,” he says, his voice even lower, but shaky in a way that is not at all familiar. “They’re sensitive.”</p><p>Huh. “Good sensitive?”</p><p>“I don’t know, no-one else has ever touched them before, and angels don’t experience sensuali—” he breaks off as Dean runs a thumb, carefully, along where he can feel the firm arc of a bone, covered with a very, very delicate, soft skin—like the inside of a wrist, but a full long stretch of it, tight over tiny flickering muscles. Dean’s nail catches on the fuzzy edge of a feather. “<em>Oh.</em>”</p><p>Oh, okay, yeah. Weird. Really weird. Still awesome.</p><p>Cas whines a little into Dean’s mouth when Dean comes back in to lick and taste at his tongue, and he doesn’t let go of where he’s using his whole hand now in small, petting motions. Cas seems to like it when Dean draws little circles with his fingertips the best—from bone to the edge of the wingand back again: his mouth goes slack against Dean’s the first time he tries it. Every so often Dean peeks up to check—Cas’s other wing has folded itself up, he can barely see the outline of it, but the one by Dean’s right hand is flickering and flapping like it can’t get enough, and he can feel it trying to press closer into his fingers. He can feel that the few feathers that are there <em>aren’t </em>soft and sleek and feathery, they’re kind of prickly, but when Dean carefully get his fingers around one and gently tugs, Cas actually <em>moans</em>.</p><p>Shit, he really, really hopes Cas is getting off on this as much as Dean is; Dean’s really <em>enjoying</em> the idea of giving his best friend an angelic handjob he’s never had before, but if this turns out to be the equivalent of an angel head scratch Dean’s probably gonna be a little embarrassed.</p><p>But Cas is the one who sticks his thigh in between Dean’s legs to get them closer when he flops against Dean’s chest, arms coming around to bracket Dean’s hips and brace himself with both hands against the map table like Cas is having a hard time keeping himself standing. From the bulge Dean’s got pressing against his own, right now, the wing petting is <em>definitely</em> the good kind of sensitive.</p><p>Holy shit, Dean’s got Cas’s cock nudging against his. And they’re definitely <em>both</em> hard.</p><p>When Cas rolls his hips, groaning a little, the sides of their cocks slotting and sliding together feels a lot better than it should through what is way, way, <em>way</em> too many layers of pants and underwear. They’re both fully dressed and rubbing off against each other with Dean’s back against the map table in the war room, Dean thinks he might be jerking Cas off by petting his invisible wing, and that’s Cas’s <em>hand</em> that just slipped between them to cup firmly at Dean’s crotch.</p><p>Dean would deny that that high, shocked noise came out of him, but Cas made the same one when Dean grabbed his wing earlier, so there.</p><p>Dean definitely didn’t see today going this way when he woke up this morning.</p><p>Considering that they’ve <em>both</em> got hard-ons and Dean’s pretty sure Cas’s is at least partially because Dean’s still got a hand in his wing, Dean has no idea why <em>he’s</em> the one who’s blushing when Cas peels himself away and looks down between them. Or why he loses his breath at the careful touch when Cas just sort of traces the outline of Dean’s bulge through his jeans with one finger.</p><p>“I have not seen this part of you since I rebuilt you,” he says, a little regretfully, “and I didn’t have the proper appreciation yet then.” He looks up, and hooks his index finger, casual as anything, into Dean’s belt loop. “May I?”</p><p>They’re both still covered with sweat and Purgatory; Cas still has blood on his forehead and a spatter of it on his collar. They don’t actually have time for any of this right now.</p><p>Honestly, the world could be burning outside the bunker right now for all Dean cares, and, even more annoyingly? He’s pretty sure he knows what Sammy would say if it came down to it.</p><p>(No. Nope, Dean’s never discussing this with Sammy.)</p><p>“Oh, hell yeah,” Dean answers, and lets go of Cas’s wing to reach for those ugly polyester black slacks straining on Cas’s thighs, flicking the belt open with one hand and working the button and zip with the other. (Just because it’s been awhile since Dean did this doesn’t mean he’s forgotten some of his tricks).</p><p>Cas has somehow already gotten into Dean’s jeans and shoved them <em>and</em> his boxers down Dean’s thighs, half-trapping them together. He gets them down so fast Dean’s hard-on almost snags on his waistband, but Cas sneaks a hand in there—how many hands does he even <em>have</em>?!—and lifts Dean free before anything gets awkward—</p><p>“Oh, you’re just as lovely as I remember down here, too,” Cas says, admiring. He cups his fingers all around Dean’s length, and his hand is just as smooth and coarse on Dean’s skin down there as it was on his face. Dean’s hand tightens in surprise on the bit of perfect hipbone that’s pressing against his palm, and Cas’s eyes flutter before he smiles, looking down and, of all the damned things, combing his fingertips delicately through Dean’s pubes. “But it is better-looking erect.”</p><p>Jesus fucking Christ, Dean’s <em>never</em> going to get used to how weird Cas is. He really hopes he never does. Because the way he’s smiling a content little smile and gently petting up and down Dean’s cock right now is a surprise right out of Dean’s shakiest wet dreams.</p><p>“Uh, thanks?” Dean answers, and returns the favor, easing Cas out of the open vee of his slacks; the looser cloth sags down Cas’s hips, and his angel casually spreads his legs apart to keep them from ending up at his ankles. Maybe incidentally, maybe not, that kind of nudges his knee at Dean’s inner thighs. Dean shivers and tightens his fingers around that nice, warm cock. Cas isn’t big, but he’s not small, either. He’s just as hard as Dean is, and the rush of blood that goes to Dean’s cheeks and his head is like nothing he’s ever felt with a cock in his hand before. “Yeah, you know, I like yours, too.”</p><p>He does, shit, he really does. It’s been a long time since Dean pretended he ended up in bar back rooms to ‘scratch the itch’—ten years, and it isn’t a coincidence; there’s self-disgust, and then there’s looking at a smiling dark-haired pretty boy who <em>hasn’t</em> got ocean-blue eyes and a shaky shy smile and Dean realizing that he just doesn’t want to be there.</p><p>But he hasn’t forgotten the deep, good nervousness of it. There’s the twist of looking down at something that’s just like him and <em>not, </em>and it’s both completely different and just the same as watching a sweetheart peel herself out of her panties.</p><p>The flash of mischief in Cas’s face and creasing the corners of his eyes is something that Dean hasn’t seen in a long, long time—since Jack, since they all lost and lost and lost again, and lost a little of themselves, too. “I thought about restoring your foreskin, too, but I didn’t know if you would appreciate the modification,” Cas tells him, very seriously. His fingers arch sweetly into the little curve right where the head of Dean’s cock meets his shaft, and why are they even still talking?</p><p>Though… ‘too?’ All of a sudden, something makes a <em>lot</em> more sense; the bee episode didn’t hide a damned thing, including the fact that Cas is uncut. Considering that Jimmy was a good Midwestern boy, Dean might have wasted just a few too many brain cells thinking about that fact, goddammit.</p><p>“Well, thanks for that, that would’ve freaked me out even more than the handprint,” Dean answers—though the way Cas says ‘<em>Mm!’</em> and all-but-wiggles when Dean tweaks the soft tip of his foreskin between his fingertips is making him rethink that for just a second.</p><p>This should be intense. It shouldn’t just be good, it should feel like something bending, something <em>breaking, </em>because two buddies holding each other’s cocks with their pants around their thighs shouldn’t just <em>happen</em> after a decade of dancing around each other. They’ve hurt each other in so many goddamned ways, more than they’ve hurt almost anyone else, they’ve bled and lived and <em>died</em> for each other. They’ve been best friends; they’ve raised a kid. They’ve <em>buried</em> a kid. They’ve broken up. They’ve walked out, walked on.</p><p>They’ve come back.</p><p>Dean’s just on the very edge of calling all of this off because as much as he wants it, this feels like something that might be a little too good, something they just can’t <em>have. </em>But Cas, ‘cause he’s <em>Cas </em>and, as ever, oblivious, grabs Dean’s right hand and shoves it back behind himself.</p><p>“Don’t stop. You have two hands,” he complains. The wing shadows behind him flip and flap impatiently, and Dean feels that soft, invisible, impossible skin curving against the back of his hand again, bristly with damaged feathers.</p><p>Okay, so, Cas is <em>bossy</em>. Dean would have something to say to that, but the grin that curves his lip as he runs just one fingertip along what he thinks is the bottom edge of Cas’s wing feels a little too stupid to get away with Winchester sarcasm. And when Cas moans softly and thrusts into Dean’s hand, he's not feeling even a little bit sarcastic anymore.</p><p>Cas is fucking Dean’s hand, holy shit.</p><p>Finding out what Cas likes in a grip is <em>fun</em> in a way Dean doesn’t remember shaky, hurried handjobs in bathrooms or alley corridors ever being, and he doesn’t just think it’s because it’s been a few years. Cas’s cock is… <em>sleek, </em>if that’s the right word. He fits just right into the cup of Dean’s fingers. It’s probably because he’s not cut, but the skin moves so smooth and easy on him, and the glide of Dean’s hand is like he doesn’t need lube at all.</p><p>Not that he’s arguing about Cas saying, “Hm,” and lifting a palm to his own mouth to get it wet before wrapping it back around Dean’s cock. He wasn’t even complaining about the not-quite-comfortable catch and friction of Cas’s calluses, but oh, that’s even better. The sight of Cas getting his own hand good and wet to jack <em>Dean</em> off, that just, fuck, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.</p><p>If Dean leans forward to maybe help him out a little, and their tongues meet slow and wet over and through Cas’s fingers and all of a sudden two of Cas’s fingers have ended up in <em>Dean’s</em> mouth, that… might just be something else, too.</p><p>The truth is, when he’s working on himself Dean prefers his handjobs fast and easy-come, easy-go—a little lube, fast strokes just at the middle of his shaft, maybe a little play just under the head if he’s feeling fancy. It’s an appetizer, maybe just something to take the edge off, not a damned main course.</p><p>But there’s nothing ‘just’ about this, about exploring what he never thought he was gonna have. Cas is exactly the opposite, and maybe he’s got the right of it. He moans the loudest and murmurs “Oh, that is <em>so </em>nice,” in this hoarse, quiet little voice when Dean’s going a little slow, all the way base to tip, a sweep of Dean’s palm over the head of him at the end of each stroke. It just figures that Cas would like everything slow and steady, but he <em>really</em> likes it; Dean’s hand is slippery in a way it’s never been before, to the point where he looks down to make sure Cas is still <em>hard</em>.</p><p>(He is. Oh, yeah. He definitely is.)</p><p>Once Dean’s got a good rhythm going, Cas doesn’t even complain about Dean stopping the little stroking, petting motions of his wing—not even Dean’s coordinated enough to be doing both. Not with Cas’s fingers straying curiously under his cock to roll Dean’s ballsack in his palm, exploring as gently as Dean was exploring the curve of his feathers. Though there’s a sense of <em>weight</em> and <em>warm</em> behind Dean on the map table that makes him think that Cas might’ve wrapped a wing around him instead.</p><p>They play; they rearrange, again, again. Again. Cas gets a sex flush that goes from his cheekbones to his ears, and he blushes even harder when Dean dots kisses along it, grinning. Cas has also never traded hickeys, and why did Dean ever think virgins were a little annoying? Holy shit, Cas’s teeth closing so carefully around the notch of his neck into his shoulder makes Dean’s hand tighten on that thick, dark hair in a way that made <em>both</em> of them whine.</p><p>Cas’s stubble is softer than his. But the way it feels rubbing against the underside of Dean’s chin when Cas brushes his way back up with a soft noise of low interest is better than Dean’s spent years imagining. Isn’t that just the damndest thing?</p><p>Both his and Cas’s hands end up wrapped in a tangled, warm circle around both of their cocks—both of them looking down and rocking into the warm tunnel of their fists, cockheads peeking wet and pink out at the end of their thrusts. That, now <em>that</em> might be the best thing that Dean’s ever seen.</p><p>Cas is moaning and leaning into him, his shoulders hunching and shaking when Dean tickles his slit. Their foreheads come resting together, and every so often, one of their belt buckles clanks loud enough to make one of them or both of them jump, but the sounds of skin and the soft wet slap of every push is echoing through the big room, and there’s something rustling that most definitely isn’t their clothes.</p><p>They’re smiling, though. They’re both smiling.</p><p>Sonofabitch, they’re both still fucking completely <em>dressed</em> and standing in the middle of a strategy room with Dean’s ass half hitched on the table, and it’s already the best goddamned sex that Dean’s ever had.</p><p>Dean can’t see the shadows of either of Cas’s wings anymore, but at least one of them is nudging at the small of his back like a bony arm. Cas is moaning loud enough that it should echo, and it <em>does </em>grate and rasp. His free hand is clenched around the back of Dean’s neck hard enough that his nails sting, and Dean’s hand is helping guide their rhythm on Cas’s hip, because Cas is so into this in just the right way, so desperate that he’s up on his tiptoes and his thighs are straining even under their dark, sagging slacks.</p><p>It's forever, and Dean doesn’t want this to end.</p><p>It ends quickly enough that Dean thinks they maybe should <em>both</em> be embarrassed.</p><p>But Jesus fuck, how the hell is he supposed to resist? Cas tenses up against him, moans, “<em>Dean!</em>” quietly into the side of his jaw and his nails clench tight enough against the back of Dean’s neck that it’s the sweetest kind of sting. He’s so quiet about it that Dean almost doesn’t realize that Cas is coming until he <em>is</em>. If they hadn’t been holding their cocks together the way they were, Dean wouldn’t have felt the jerk and ripple of come and orgasm going straight up Cas’s cock, and feeling that against his <em>own, </em>the hot gather of it welling between his fingers and dripping down between them, onto him, oh fuck, how could he have ever told himself he didn’t want this? This is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced.</p><p>Cas is quivering against him—whole-body, overwhelmed, making small, rough wounded noises like he can’t believe how good this feels, either. “Yeah,” Dean murmurs, “Yeah, sweetheart,” and he doesn’t stop stroking. Cas’s back spasms and tenses, and he whimpers—maybe a little oversensitive now—but Dean reaches in and kisses Cas’s earlobe, and that makes those slender hips jerk forward into the tunnel of their hands again, so he’s not done <em>yet</em>…</p><p>But it’s not until Dean leans in and kisses Cas’s mouth again, grinning, that at least three bulbs blow overhead and the map table lights the room up red for a good long heartbeat.</p><p>He doesn’t break the kiss anyway. Because you know what? Cas—Dean’s little badass—moaning into his mouth, the warm curl of his tongue against Dean’s as he fights himself through it, feels almost as good as the hands they’ve got on Dean’s cock.</p><p>Cas’s hand has gone slack around them by the time Dean starts his own thrusts into the mess in their hands once, twice. Watching Cas give up, give in, seeing the way Dean’s angel is looking sort of dazed up at Dean now with his eyes full of love and warmth, like Dean’s the one who set the world back up on its feet—<em>that’s</em> what sex should look like. That’s a fucking religious experience right there, so hot that Dean’s spine is saying hallelujas and he’s so goddamned close—</p><p>Cas drags his free hand down from the back of Dean’s neck to mold his fingers over Dean’s left shoulder. He says something in Enochian, sleepily, like he’s forgotten Dean doesn’t speak it, but it sounds like a prayer.</p><p>There’s no power to the touch—no grace—Dean doesn’t think. There’s a wing against his back, a knee wedged between his, Cas’s come in his palm. He’s in his tac gear and standing with his jeans and boxers around his knees. Cas’s hand is on his shoulder, and Dean needs, he needs—</p><p>This time, it’s Cas who pulls him in for the kiss. His mouth is a hosannah, and Dean’s never forgotten how to pray. A slender thumb digs hard into Dean’s deltoid. Dean doesn’t have a scar there anymore, but Cas has been printed on his flesh for damned forever now, and—and—</p><p>“Yes, Dean,” Cas tells him, softly. Happily. His blue eyes are glowing—the normal, ordinary way, not the angel way. “<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>It’s the best damned orgasm Dean’s ever had.</p><p>By the time Dean actually thinks he might care about something other than the white noise static in the back of his mind and the effort it’s taking right now to keep his knees from going out from under him, he’s aware enough to realize that his hand’s a mess—sticky and slippery to the wrist. He’s warm—a little too warm, and there’s sweat trickling down the back of his neck. Cas’s thighs are sandwiching between and around his. Both of Cas’s arms are pinioning his sides again, and it turns out that angels are capable of fucking full-body cuddling even when both of them are <em>standing</em>.</p><p>Dean should have known that, though. Cas hugs like that, too.</p><p>It’s… really nice.</p><p>Dean doesn’t know when he wrapped his other arm around Cas, but one hand is resting between Cas’s shoulder blades, now. There’s no wings to be seen anywhere, but Cas’s shoulders feel relaxed against his in a way that Dean doesn’t think he’s seen in years.</p><p>They really can’t relax, now. They’ve got to go. Sonofabitch, they really do. They have Dean’s brother and his maybe-girlfriend to save, a Chuck to stuff into a box, a spell to cast, and the Mark of Cain to figure out all the fuck over again. It changes people, and Dean knows that. It’ll change Cas—even Cas, who, for an awkward little angel with the best of intentions and the worst fucking luck, figured himself out long before Dean did. Before Dean even could.</p><p>Dean won’t let it change him.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.</p><p>He already copped out in Purgatory once.</p><p>Once? Yeah, Dean’s fooling himself. He’s spent a decade copping out. He could have said it a thousand times; he could have said what he needed to a fucking <em>hour </em>ago. If nothing else, Dean’s not leaving shit unsaid again.</p><p>“Hey, Cas?”</p><p>Cas sighs, soft and annoyed, into the side of his neck, and drops a kiss against Dean’s pulse point. Dean can’t remember the last time he felt someone’s breath that close. He can’t remember the last time he let someone that near his throat and didn’t think for just an instant—just an instant—that there could be teeth there that aren’t the fun kind.</p><p>“What?” he says.</p><p>But Cas sounds grouchy about having his afterglow interrupted. Angels get afterglow, who knew.</p><p>Dean pokes at him with a knee. Cas doesn’t so much as move. If anything, he sticks his nose further into the notch of Dean’s neck muscles—turned in, not out, not the way they normally hug each other. Dean can’t help the smile that turns at his mouth, but he nudges his angel harder. “I need to say something,” Dean announces. “Need to tell you something.”</p><p>Funny, he thought it would be easier, after… everything.</p><p>Nope. Still fucking terrifying.</p><p>Cas lifts his head and he doesn’t look at all grouchy. Dean would be blasted back by the warm, happy look in his eyes if he weren’t already leaning against the map table. Cas doesn’t look like that, not ever. “So tell me,” he says, and it’s soft, an invitation.</p><p>“I love you, man,” Dean says, his hand sticky, and their pants goddamned open and around their thighs. The edge of the map table is digging smooth and slippery against the line of his ass. It’s so awkward. Dean’s hoarse, hurting with how true it is. So he says it again, so there’s no mistake. “I love you.”</p><p>The world doesn’t end.</p><p>“Oh,” Cas answers. Then, with a hint of a smile curving at his eyes, “I know.”</p><p>The world doesn’t end.</p><p>Dean blinks, very slowly, back at him, and tugs at the edge of his own pants to bring them back up because all of a sudden he can’t deal with being half-naked and bareassed in his own home even knowing no-one else is around (because, shit, he and Cas have to go fucking rescue them). Cas just sort of stands there looking at him, smiling sweetly, like he has no idea what the hell Dean’s waiting for him to say back. With his black pants still open and his cock hanging out soft.</p><p><em>Goddammit</em>, Castiel.</p><p>Still can’t take a hint. Dean would grind his teeth, but that’s just so fucking <em>Cas</em> that Dean can’t even be mad at him—not for keeping behind his teeth something that Dean knows Cas <em>has</em> already said, aloud, more than once. And Dean’s sure as fuck not gonna beg. He doesn’t have to. He knows it’s true, he knows Cas loves him.</p><p>No matter how much it would’ve been really nice to hear it.</p><p>Instead, he sighs and steps closer, starts helping Cas tuck back into his slacks, because why the heck he isn’t putting his own damned self to rights, Dean isn’t even—</p><p>Then Dean blinks harder and stops with his hands on the buttons of Cas’s pants, fingers pinching the tab of his zipper as he draws it up, because… wait.</p><p>Wait, what just happened here?</p><p>He looks up.</p><p>Cas is still smiling at him.</p><p>“D-did you… did you just <em>Han Solo </em>me?” Dean demands.</p><p>Cas arcs one dark eyebrow at him, and, very seriously, says, “Of course. I understood that Star Wars reference.” He tips his chin, proudly. “Wasn’t that what you meant me to say?”</p><p>And the world doesn’t end.</p><p>That’s it, that’s their story right here, and the Mark of Cain can’t take this away. Chuck can’t have this. He won’t have this. Dean won’t fucking <em>let him</em>.</p><p>And for the first time in a really, really fucking long time, Dean Winchester realizes he isn’t scared.</p><p>Cas lets himself be towed in for a hug. He looks confused by the way Dean’s clutching at him and shaking into the embrace ‘cause Dean might actually be laughing a little into his shoulder again, but confused is a pretty fucking adorable look on him in the first place.</p><p>“Yup. Exactly right, Cas. Carry on,” Dean grabs Cas’s hand, and Cas smiles at him and looks so fucking pleased with himself that Dean can’t <em>not </em>yank him back in for one more kiss.</p><p>“Now,” Dean announces, and grins against his angel's red, kiss-bitten mouth. “Let’s go kick some ass.”</p><p>~fin~</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Benny being dead. Pfft. I spit in the face of that idea.</p><p>We made it, friends! &lt;3 The last Suptober from 2020--just one day late. I don't know if I'm ever going to be this prolific again, and I'm not going to lie, this nearly killed me. But I'm so happy and proud that I tried it!</p><p>I'm probably going to go on hiatus to decompress my brain for a little while. But sometime in the next few days I'm going to put out a "roundup" chapter: it'll have the 31 stories from this month categorized together for ease of finding links, as well as tiny little 'snippets' from the AUs... and for anyone who's interested, a sneak peek of all the little scraps that didn't make it into being full stories this month!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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